This Life
by Shtagvulf
Summary: -=Uploaded Chapter Four=- Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit-- that has come from across the Sea, without memory. No slash/sex/profanity; not a Mary-Sue.
1. Chapter One

This Life  
  
Written by Northelle  
  
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea...  
  
This is my first LOTR fanfiction... but... let's not dwell on that, eh? Yes, you're here for a Frodo!Returns fic, you're going to get one.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)  
  
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish.  
  
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames!  
  
Author's notes:  
  
This particular fanfiction takes place in the year 1458 and beyond. Elanor is 37 years old, Elfstan is three. I'm going to take a flying leap and call Fastred 38 years old, because I can't find his age in the book. If anyone knows it, tell me! Frodo (yes, yes, he IS in this story, under a different name, but it isn't going to be hard for you to spot him) is around 85 years old, but because of the time passing in Valinor, he looks to be much younger... I'll go with about sixty. I'd like to add that I'm not copying this idea from anyone; this fiction is all but complete, and I have been writing it for a while now. Unfortunately, work and school hasn't permitted me to fix and post lately. Read on!  
  
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Chapter One  
  
When Elanor first saw him, he was stumbling along dizzyingly, groping at the air, murmuring strange things in an odd tongue. Elanor was just arriving from her cart, where she was unloading things from the market. She had lived in Westmarch, with her husband, Fastred, and her son, Elfstan, for more than three years now. Fastred was still in their cozy house, working on his book on the History of hobbits. Elanor had decided to unload more things before second breakfast, before her husband came out and took over. It would be winter soon, and they had to stock the larder with food before it came.  
  
It was when Elanor came out of the cart with two heavy boxes underneath her arms that she spotted him. It was strange, because he hadn't been there a moment ago. His breathing was hoarse as if he hadn't had a drink for days, and he was thin, and obviously delerious. His dark eyes shone feverishly as he turned to look at Elanor, who stood shocked. It was odd for anyone to be coming around their home this early. Fastred *was* the Warden. Maybe someone was hurt?  
  
"You must help me..." he said slowly, painfully, "it has fallen..."  
  
When he took a step towards her and tripped, catching his feet on his cloak (which had been rent in nearly two, tattered at his feet) he had fallen, and Elanor noticed a deep gash on the back of his head, and red stains soaking into his dark hair and odd white clothing.  
  
"It is burning..."  
  
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"Fastred! Help me, *now*!"  
  
Fastred leapt out of his desk. Having a talent for writing, he had been sifting through some notes on the Shire history before his wife had called. He literally threw himself out of the study, through the hall and into the foyer, where Elanor was struggling with what looked like another hobbit, injured. His right arm was draped over her neck, and she carried him the best she could before Fastred came and held him steadyingly.  
  
"What happened?" he asked, noticing the kinsman's odd clothes and crimson-seeping wound. "Who is this?"  
  
"I don't know," Elanor said hurryingly, leaving Fastred to look for something to bind the head-wound with, "he keeps saying something is burning. We have to stop the bleeding on his head. Ahh, where did we put the bandages?!"  
  
"I think they're are in the privvy," said Fastred, before he was cut off by Elanor. "Ugh! Fastred, lay him on the daybed, quickly. I'll go look for them. Don't let him fall asleep!"  
  
Before another word was spoken, Elanor had swiftly ran down the hall, leaving Fastred with a pen still in his hand carrying the wounded kinsman to the foyer bench. Fastred made sure he lay on his stomach, as to not make the wound hurt anymore than it already did. It looked ugly, with dirt mixed in with the blood. It seemed to be scabbed nearly over... Fastred guessed he may have had it for some time, but some other force had kept it from healing.  
  
Elanor skidded back into the foyer, carrying a small box. "Thank my Father that he made us bring this," she said, seeming to kneel down, open the container, and sift through it all at the same moment. She was eager to help this hobbit, since she had grown up quite spoiled, without the chance to help anyone like this. Her brother Frodo had gotten a wound like this by a wild pony, and she had been around to see how to heal it. It wasn't as large as the one at hand at that moment, but it was seemingly the same.  
  
As she began to clean the hobbit's wound with a dry, clean white fabric, he began to hiss and moan in the pain, his hands clenching at nothing.  
  
"It's alright," said Elanor, "we'll fix you up real quick, and maybe help you find your way home."  
  
"Burning... It's burning... you must stop it..." he murmured. Fastred watched as a tear slid down his face. "It has fallen... It has fallen."  
  
"He's delerious, Fastred," said Elanor numbly, still dutifully cleaning away, having often to pull out a new clean cloth. When she began to gently pick and scrape away at the debris on the inside of the wound, he cried out feebly in a different language.  
  
"What do you suppose he's speaking about?" asked Fastred, coming up with a bottle of iodine that seemed to be older than him.  
  
"I don't know," she said. "Give me that iodine and grab his hand. He'll probably be in more pain than he is now... That should stop him from trying to flail out and stop me."  
  
Fastred took up his right hand and squeezed it gently. "Elanor's going to clean it out, alright? It is going to hurt."  
  
The hobbit said nothing, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and shaking his head. Elanor hastily tipped the bottle right into the wound, stopping the brown, acidic liquid from falling onto his clothes with an extra rag. Fastred winced as the grip on his hand tightened; it felt like it was being crushed between two rocks.  
  
Soon, though, Elanor was done, quickly wrapping the wound with bandages, around the base of the skull and over his forehead. She tied it gently yet tightly, so it would not fall off if he rubbed it against something. The grip upon Fastred's hand loosened, and he pulled it away, staring with disbelief at the bruise forming there.  
  
Elanor nodded with satisfaction. "Good, he seems to be asleep. We'll have him take him to the Doctor, and see what's wrong with him," she said, patting the injured hobbit's hand gently. "Come on, Fastred, let's let him rest."  
  
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The pain in his head had lulled to a throbbing ache, hurting only when he dared to move. What had happened? His thoughts and mind seemed to be full of fog, and darkness. Only one thing came to him as he lay; only one word he could remember.  
  
*Bronwe.*  
  
He shifted. All was quiet, and he wondered if he was dead. Why was he hurting? He opened his eyes a crack and found himself staring at the inside of a wooden room with one window. He was on his stomach, on a comfortably cushioned piece of furniture large enough to hold his entire body.  
  
*Bronwe.*  
  
The name came to his mind again; nagged at him. Why was it so familiar, yet so foriegn? If only he could remember... He had a feeling that he had seen something terrible, and his mind was trying to hide it from him. Who *was* he? For the sake of all things good, he didn't even know his name! Where had he come from, and where was he now?  
  
He had to find out. Opening his eyes fully, he took stock of his position again. On his stomach, something around his head, head aching, aching, burning...  
  
It is burning... It has fallen...  
  
Burning! With that thought, an instant vision of fire came to him. Fire... something was in danger. He knew it.. he knew something was in danger. But what? He was so frustrated he could barely breathe.  
  
Fire engulfing a single white tree.  
  
He leapt out of the bed and immediately groped back for it, wincing at the wave of pain and dizzyness that hit him like an iron pole. It took his breath away, and for a long moment, he had to pause to regain himself. Finally, though, he stood, looking at his shadow cast by the bright morning light seeping into the window. He looked at his hands. They were pale. He patted himself. Nothing else seemed hurt. His clothes... white... silky... dirty.  
  
Bronwe.  
  
Yes, now he knew. Bronwe... was his name... or at least he thought it was. Since it was the only thing he could remember at all... except the fire... he decided he would call himself that until he could remember his real name. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly across the room, feeling light and fuzzy. Perhaps it was just the sunlight streaming into his eyes, or his aching head- he did not know.  
  
As he took a step towards the door, he was suprised to see it fling open. A woman, about his size, and very beautiful, stood in the doorway. She had hair like fire... and eyes like grass. Bronwe blinked very slowly. She was stunned for a moment, but after that she gently took his hand and sat him back down on the bed.  
  
"Now, now," she said, pushing him gently back, "you can't get up yet, lad. You have to stay here, until we get you a doctor."  
  
Bronwe took another deep breath. "What happened to me?"  
  
----------  
  
Elanor smiled. Finally, he had woken up! It had to be near midmorning now, though.  
  
"I found you with a cut on your head," she said. Then, she added quietly, "Don't you remember?" He shook his head slowly. He seemed to be in a daze, never taking his eyes off of her face. "Can you tell me your name, or where you come from?"  
  
Elanor began to notice that he had quite enamoring eyes. They were a dull, saddened blue, like the sky just before night fell and the moon came out. She thought she could see a distant, painful memory, or perhaps many, stir behind his gaze as he stared at her... but finally he managed to say- in the softest voice Elanor could remember- "Bronwe... My name..." he trailed off.  
  
"Your name is Bronwe," Elanor congratulated herself silently for finding out his name. "Bronwe," she repeated, "that is an odd one... That's certainly not any word in the Shire-language."  
  
"Shire?" He seemed so lost, Elanor concluded. Those eyes of his had a mingled look of confusion and ache and loss that they nearly covered his innocent question.  
  
Elanor gulped. "That's where I live, where all us Hobbits live. Middle-Earth, my lad... Don't you know that?"  
  
"Hobbits," he repeated, as if the name were new to him.  
  
"Aye," said Elanor. She looked at him for another moment, and he looked back at her. Both were completely silent with their own thoughts. Elanor was beginning to feel like she had known him, somehow, long ago, before now. Bronwe was feeling the same way. Another moment of staring, and Elanor asked quietly, in almost a whisper...  
  
"Do I know you?"  
  
~TBC~ 


	2. Chapter Two

This Life  
  
Written by Northelle  
  
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea, by accident...  
  
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)  
  
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish.  
  
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames.  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
Bronwe Athan Harthad is the name that Frodo was given in ROTK in the History of the Lord of the Rings (the fourth part). As long as Tolkien wrote it, I'm going to imply it! I'm using Bronwe as Frodo's name in this fiction. He may get 'Frodo' back eventually. I'm not going to tell you what happens.  
  
As for those of you who asked if Merry, Pippin, or Sam are in this fic: Sam will be eventually, but not for a while. I don't know wether or not Merry or Pippin will be in here, I hope they can, I hope I can fit them in somewhere! Thanks for reviewing, it really jolts me forward!  
  
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Chapter Two  
  
"Here, Elanor. Have some second breakfast. It's warm. Come on," said Fastred encouragingly, offering his wife the warm soup and bread. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, deep in thought.  
  
"He finally fell asleep," Elanor sighed, staring at the tabletop.  
  
"At least he didn't wake Elfstan up," Fastred marked gently, almost mockingly. He pushed the bowl of soup until it touched Elanor's arm. "Now eat," he said in a soft, commanding tone. "Don't be worried about him. He'll be right as rain, you'll see."  
  
Elanor glanced at the bowl of soup and then absently began to stir it. "It's not that, Fastred."  
  
"Then what is it?"  
  
Elanor shook her head. "When I looked into his eyes, he looked so lost. So lost. He's a hobbit and he doesn't even know that he is one. He hardly knew his *name*, Fastred! He can't remember a thing. It's what frightens me. My father used to forget things, but not like this." She took a bite of the soup.  
  
Fastred nodded softly. "Well, second breakfast is cooked, and elevensies and luncheon are on the windowsill, but I shouldn't be gone for that long. When Elfstan wakes up, make sure he eats it all."  
  
Elanor was still looking at her soup. Fastred bent down and breathed softly in her ear. "Alright?" She sat bolt upright and nodded, smiling softly and sheepishly. Fastred smiled and patted her on the shoulder, "Good. I'll see you by three hours after-noon."  
  
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Fastred tightened the saddle-strips on his two ponies. One of the beasts of burden was Strider II, an older but gentle gelding- the other was Eowyn, a mid-of-age mare who had thus born two colts. Eowyn was faster, but Strider had the patience to bear an injured rider.  
  
Bronwe eyed the beasts nervously, obviously not keen about hopping upon one of their backs. Something about the dark, clopping hooves and Strider's dark mane set him on edge. Fastred smiled gently and helped Bronwe over to them. "It's quite alright. They won't hurt you," the hobbit knew enough not to force someone into immediately being comfortable around a pony. "Here," he said, demonstrating by stroking Eowyn's copper forelock and white muzzle, "they are only ponies, and well-trained ones at that."  
  
He placed one of Bronwe's hands on Strider's neck. The old grey pony snorted somewhat at the touch, stamped one of his hooves on the ground, and then nuzzled Fastred's neck.  
  
"What... are they going to do?" Bronwe asked quizzically, slowly reaching up to touch the pony's mane. Fastred smiled again at Bronwe. It was odd, because he looked as old as Elanor's father, yet had all of the knowledge of his son, Elfstan. At least he knew how to speak. "We," he answered, "are going to ride them to the Shire doctor."  
  
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Bronwe gripped the saddle horn with both hands, trembling. The pony was going slow and easy, and Fastred was holding onto the halter rope himself. Bronwe was developing a fear for the pony, or at least riding the pony. He watched the ground nervously, as if his face were to be meeting it soon. Fastred was leading them on the most gently sloping road around, but it was also the longest way around as well.  
  
"Are you alright back there, Bronwe?" asked Fastred, glancing behind him.  
  
"Going to be sick," answered Bronwe slowly.  
  
"That's normal," chuckled Fastred, "you'll get used to it, like Elanor had to. Now she can't wait to ride Eowyn to the market every week."  
  
The pair went quietly along for a while in the morning light, each with their own thoughts. Luckily, the doctor's house wasn't too far away, and Fastred could already see it as he rounded a bend in the road.  
  
Doctor Burrows was a kindly old hobbit with steady hands, perfect for doctoring. He lived with is wife in his large home-- a home with many rooms, for Westmarch was filling rapidly with hobbits, both young and old. When Fastred and Bronwe came to him, he was filling in a book with his spindly handwriting. The book was used to date who came in, when, and what for. He looked up with a questioning glance. The Warden did not come in often.  
  
"Mr. Fastred! The last time I saw you, Elanor had sprained her wrist," he said, happy to see the Warden.  
  
"I'm afraid it's much worse than a knock on the arm," he replied. He was motioning for someone that was outside to come inside.  
  
The doctor's tone softened. "What is it? Has something happened?" He watched as Fastred gently led in a stumbling older hobbit. He had bandages around his head, sloppily arranged compared to a doctor's precise wrapping. Dr. Burrows hurried around from his desk. He hadn't met this hobbit before. "What happened to him?"  
  
"I don't know. That's why I'm here. Elanor found him."  
  
The Doctor motioned for Fastred to sit him on a cushioned bench. Bronwe complied easily-- it was better than sitting on the back of the pony. "Here, lad," the doctor snapped his fingers to get Bronwe's attention. It took a moment for the sad eyes to alight on him. "What's your name?"  
  
Fastred answered for him. "He calls himself Bronwe." He began to unwrap the bandages carefully. "He has a wound on his head, here."  
  
The doctor checked it, and his face seemed to pale. "It is a deep cut. What did he get it from?" Bronwe winced, biting his lip.  
  
"That's what I don't know. And he doesn't remember how he got it, either."  
  
The doctor bundled the bandages in his hand. "Well, here's how I would do it. I'll close the wound, but I don't know if it will help. A cut that open is prone to get dirty, infected. He also has a lump formed underneath it, like he was... well... attacked. But it doesn't look like a hoof's work to me. Only a blade would do something that deep, but it would have to be dull to rise a bump."  
  
"He was speaking in a different language when I found him. He acts like he's not from here. Elanor noted that he didn't know what a hobbit was."  
  
"An effect of the wound," answered the doctor, "when someone's hit that hard, it can mix up the memory." He stood. "Wait here for a moment."  
  
Dr. Burrows came back mixing something into a clay cup. "Have him drink this. It'll put him to sleep so we don't have to worry about him hurting."  
  
"What do I do then?"  
  
"You can go home. There's nothing you can really do, and my wife will be back in an hour or so."  
  
"When do I come back?"  
  
"Tomorrow morning should do it; you should give me time to work on him-- and for him to rest, as well."  
  
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Elanor stumbled out of the smial as Fastred came riding up on Eowyn's back. She stopped as she noticed that Strider's back was empty. Fastred dismounted and began to lead the ponies back to the stable-- which was located behind the smial.  
  
"Where is he? Is he alright?"  
  
Fastred smiled and opened the stable door. "He will be," he lied, "the doctor's taking care of him right now."  
  
Elanor sighed in relief. "That's good. What was wrong with him, then?" she asked, lending a hand in unsaddling the ponies.  
  
"Exactly what we thought was wrong. He has a wound on his head and he jumbled up his memory."  
  
"Will he get it back-- his memory?" Elanor grunted as she hung one of the saddles on the nail-hook.  
  
Fastred openly lied again. "The doctor's going to help him. He should get it back soon, he said." He was quiet for a moment, until he decided to change the subject. "And Elfstan, is he awake yet?"  
  
"Yes, unfortunately. I don't know what's worse-- having a stranger turn up on your doorstep or having to deal with a lad in his third autumn. He's curious about Bronwe, though. He'd like to meet him, he said.'"  
  
They went back into the smial after putting the ponies away, where Elfstan was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing with a hunk of charcoal on a rumpled piece of used paper. The cheery little lad looked up as Fastred and Elanor came in, squealing.  
  
"Dad, Dad!" he cried, "I learnt a new word today!"  
  
Fastred picked his little son up. "Yes, what word?"  
  
"h'Eagle! Mom says that there's giant h'eagles somewhere. I'm gonna meet them!"  
  
"Oh, really?" Fastred smiled and put Elfstan down. He was the usual hyperactive three year old, who had brown hair like his father, but his mother's green eyes. He ran into the kitchen, squealing with a mock eagle's cry. Elanor and Fastred sat at the kitchen table, watching him.  
  
"So," Elanor slid casually back into the earlier conversation, "is Bronwe going to come back?"  
  
"I don't see why not-- Elfstan, no, don't climb on the chair like that," Fastred lifted his son up and placed him on the slightly higher chair. "There. Now draw all you want."  
  
"When will he be coming back?" asked Elanor, making sure that Elfstan didn't eat the charcoal stick. It was the usual routine of an afternoon, except now Fastred wasn't locked in his study.  
  
"Noontime tomorrow-- at least that's what the doctor said. Unless he knows where he's supposed to go and be, then Bronwe will have to come back here."  
  
Elfstan triumphantly held up his paper. A messy scribble was on it, and some more were scrawled on the bottom. "See, see? It's my h'eagle. He's flying over the mountains!" The lad pointed to the scribbles on the bottom of the page. All in all, the 'drawing' resembled what happened when someone got very angry at a piece of paper.  
  
After all, things are much easier to see with a little imagination.  
  
~TBC~ 


	3. Chapter Three

This Life  
  
Written by Northelle  
  
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea, by accident.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)  
  
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish. I am not a medical professional. I do not claim to be one.  
  
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames!  
  
Author's notes:  
  
I'd like to thank (again) everyone who's reviewed on this. You'll find out what happens, with persistance from me and you both. I never leave a story unfinished for too long.  
  
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Chapter Three  
  
All that night, Elanor could not sleep. She kept tossing and turning in her bed until Fastred started to groan with disapproval. Then she had plodded out to the spare room and lain down on the daybed, finally dozing. When she awoke, sunlight was beaming into the room.  
  
She rose quickly, awaking Fastred. He was reluctant to get up.  
  
"Come on, Fastred, you have to go to the doctor!"  
  
"Mmph."  
  
"If you don't, I will! And then you'll have to stay and make breakfast, and you know how much you hate that!"  
  
"Alright, I'm up."  
  
It had taken almost hours (in Elanor's mind, at least) for Fastred to  
  
finally get dressed and eat breakfast, then he had to saddle the two ponies. When finally he had trotted off on the skewbald Eowyn with Strider loping gently behind, the sun was almost straight above their smial.  
  
Elanor sighed and watched him retreat over the hill. Elfstan had been following under her feet all day, and was now full with second breakfast. He grasped at her skirts until she picked him up and carried him into the smial.  
  
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The pony-ride to the doctors was not Fastred's highlight of the day. Eowyn was cross and kept stopping to nibble on dry, dead grass, and to make matters worse, Strider kept butting him from behind. Every time Eowyn bent down to eat, Strider would knock Fastred on the back, and he would have to scrabble to avoid hitting the ground.  
  
Finally, however, the doctor's smial soon came into view. Fastred was eager to get this problem dealt with and behind him. He kicked Eowyn into a fast trot. Strider snorted to keep up with them.  
  
Doctor Burrows came out of his smial as Fastred came skittering up on the two ponies. The kindly old hobbit smiled. "I expected you would come earlier... but I suppose any time is better than no time, eh?" The Doctor laughed.  
  
Fastred dismounted and tied the ponies up, smiling softly. "Is he any better?"  
  
"Aye. Amazingly so, too. He still doesn't seem to have any of his memory back, though," the Doctor nodded. "He should remember you."  
  
They both went into the smial, and the Doctor continued to talk. "It's a coincidence that nobody came in while I was tending to Bronwe, and only a few has come in since. They're the few patients that I'm taking care of, though."  
  
The Doctor's house had many extra rooms, and one of the largest was adorned with four beds. Three of them were occupied- one of them held a little lad with a bandaged arm, and an older lass with a splinted leg was in another.  
Fastred smiled as his eyes alighted on Bronwe, across the room in the third bed. The three patients all looked up at the same time.  
  
Doctor Burrows walked over to the young lad, checking his arm. Fastred walked over to Bronwe's bed and sat on it. The old hobbit's head was bound in fresh cloth now, his eyes clearer than they were before.  
  
"How are you?" asked Fastred.  
  
Bronwe's voice hadn't lost its soft whispering quality. "Head hurts."  
  
"It should, for a while," he smiled, "I'm Fastred. I'm the one who brought you here yesterday. I'm going to-"  
  
"I remember," said Bronwe with a hurt tone.  
  
"I'm going to take you to my house, unless you remember where you live."  
  
"No... no." Bronwe lowered his eyes. Fastred watched the doctor as he came over and checked on Bronwe again.  
  
"Now, Fastred," said the doctor, "I want you to bring Bronwe back to me in a week's time. I'd like him to stay with you and Elanor until then, if it's possible."  
  
"Oh, of course. Elanor wouldn't be happy if I didn't."  
  
"Well, happy lasses make a happy household." The Doctor laughed once more. "I'll see you off, then," he said, helping Bronwe to his feet.  
  
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Elanor sat in the main room on Fastred's big chair, watching Elfstan draw with his charcoal on the paper. The little lad loved to make various pictures on the paper- and on the walls, and the floors, and the doors. Elanor had to make sure that when Elfstan was done with the paper, the charcoal was tucked safely away.  
  
Fastred had been gone for about a half and and whole hour now. Elanor couldn't wait for him to get back. She had always loved to care for and help people, and she had been far out of practice ever since she moved from Bag End-- if Elfstan could be considered 'out of practice'.  
  
The soft clopping of hooves and the jangling of a metal harness snapped her to attention. She leapt up, scooping Elfstan from the floor and trotting outside. Expecting to see her husband, she was dismayed to see the mail carrier instead. He tipped his hat to her.  
  
"Good mornin' to ye, fair Elanor," he said, "I've got a letter from your father."  
  
"Oh," she said, "thank you." She took the letter, which had yellowed paper and a red wax seal. Turning towards the smial, she listened as the mail carrier galloped off on his fast white pony.  
  
Elanor went back in and opened the letter, reading it aloud to the curious Elfstan:  
  
'Elanor-  
  
'I was wondering how you were getting along lately. Your brother (Frodo) fell off the pony again last week, and he was in a bad state. He's far better now, but he misses you. We all miss you up here at Bag End, and are hoping you will write or visit soon.  
  
'So how are things with you and Fastred? I hope Elfstan isn't growing up too fast, but I know I can place a safe bet that he is a handful for you. I know this letter is short, for I haven't had much time on my hands- Tom came home sick a while back and Rose and I have been waiting on him hand and foot.  
  
'Trust one of my kin to be abed whenever possible.  
  
'Sam-dad'  
  
Elfstan laughed and rocked back on his heels. Elanor smiled and put the letter back in the envelope, putting it aside for Fastred to read later. She chided herself mentally for forgetting to write to her father for so long. She would make Fastred write him a letter, and then they would go and visit him together.  
  
The sound of pony hooves once again came from outside. This time, there was no mistaking that it was two ponies. The hollow sound of wood under hoof sounded; Fastred was in the stable. Elanor once again picked up Elfstan and went outside. A chill wind was blowing from the north.  
  
Fastred was pulling Strider into a stall when Elanor arrived. She beamed when she saw Bronwe sitting on one of the wooden chairs.  
  
"That Eowyn has some nerve today," complained Fastred, "she kept stopping to eat the grass whenever I kicked her."  
  
"Eowyn doesn't like being egged on," said Elanor as she walked towards Bronwe.  
  
"Nag," Fastred whispered under his breath.  
  
Elanor bent down, ignoring the comment. "Hello, Bronwe. Feeling any better?"  
  
"He doesn't like riding the ponies, Elanor. He'll learn soon, you'll see," said Fastred.  
  
A brief flicker of confusion flashed as Bronwe looked at the lass, then recognition came to him. "Elanor." He smiled softly, and looked at Elfstan. This time, confusion stayed there.  
  
"Bronwe," she said gently, "this is my son, Elfstan." Fastred looked at them from across the stables. "Elfstan," Elanor continued, "this is Bronwe."  
  
"Hello, Bronwe," said Elfstan, trying to get his clumsy tongue around the word.  
  
"Hello," said Bronwe. Elanor smiled.  
  
"Doctor Burrows says that Bronwe should stay with us for a week," said Fastred, pulling the saddle off of Strider. "What do you think?"  
  
Elanor nodded. "I think that's just fine."  
  
----------  
  
When the ponies were all back into their stables, they went back inside. Elanor stirred up some tea while Fastred showed Bronwe where he would stay. The spare room was adorned with the small daybed and a dresser. Fastred's clothes seemed to fit the newcomer well enough, and Fastred had enough clothes to spare.  
  
They sat in the main room, sipping tea. Elfstan was, once again, drawing. He wasn't too sure about bothering Bronwe yet-- he looked a little sick, like his father when he had aten raw mushrooms. Or maybe just pale.  
  
"When did this letter arrive?" said Fastred, plucking the papers from the side table.  
  
"Oh! I forgot. The mail carrier dropped it off while you were gone. It's from Dad," answered Elanor, blushing.  
  
Fastred sat down and read the letter quickly. "I'll write him a letter back tonight, and drop it off at the post tomorrow." He folded the paper and set it back down where he found it.  
  
"Who's Dad?" asked Bronwe, still watching Elfstan.  
  
"My father. His name is actually Samwise. He's the Mayor, you know. He saved the world."  
  
"Oh, don't start with that again, Elanor. Last time we told the story it gave Elfstan nightmares for a week," said Fastred, stirring the tea.  
  
Elanor rolled her eyes. "When Elfstan's not listening, I'll tell the story to you, Bronwe," she said. Bronwe nodded, his eyes curious.  
  
"Well, now he'll be listening, won't he, Elanor?" joked Fastred.  
  
"I heard that," said Elfstan.  
  
~TBC~ 


	4. Chapter Four

This Life  
  
Written by Northelle  
  
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)  
  
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish. I am not a medical professional. I do not claim to be one.  
  
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames!  
  
Author's notes:  
  
Finally, after at least a few months of delay, I have updated 'This Life.' I will finish it, time willing, but lately I have been busy with work, school, bills, that sort of thing. I hope everyone isn't *too* angry at me. But here it is! Chapter Four!  
  
To EloraCooper4: Thank you for reviewing again! Bronwe is the name that-- I think it was the minstrel-- gave to Frodo before he left for the Shire after the War of the Ring. You can find the information in Book Four of the History of the Lord of the Rings (It's titled 'The End of the Third Age'). It's actually Bronwe Athan Harthad, or 'Endurance beyond Hope'.  
  
Aemilia, JadeiteZ, Krista, Endymion: Thank you so much for reviewing! Now, onwards!  
  
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Chapter Four  
  
Dusk had come to Westmarch by the time Fastred was able to sit at his desk. He had always loved his study, how it always smelled like books, and how the sunlight hit the window just at the right angle for it to light the desk, but not get into the writer's eyes. It was one of his favorite places in the entire smial, and by the time he got around to writing a letter back to Samwise, it was even more precious-- for it kept him safely out of the range of Elfstan. His son was never too keen on getting to bed on time.  
  
Fastred lit the lamp and settled down slowly on the chair, worn out from riding the ponies in the past few days. He sighed and took in the silence of the locked room, watching the shadows dance to the lamp's light. After a few moments, he opened his desk and took out a sheet of clean paper. Taking up one of his lesser-used quills, he dipped it in the dark ink.  
  
He bent down to write the letter, bringing his face close to the page, as he always did. When he began to put pressure on the pen to write, he noticed a dull pain in his hand. Putting the quill down, he turned his hand in the light, expecting to find a cut or blister on the inside of his thumb. Instead, he saw the faded purple of a bruise, a dark stain mottling his palm and running between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
Sitting back, thinking it was a trick of the light, Fastred gently closed his hand into a fist, and then opened it. Yes, there was definitely a bruise there. He couldn't remember how he had gotten it, until his memory wandered back to the other day. Bronwe had clutched his hand so tightly in pain that he had left a bruise. Fastred furrowed his brows, wondering how strong the older hobbit was. Perhaps, when he got better, he would be able to help Fastred in the stables.  
  
The Warden took the quill back up again, and, ignoring the pain, began to write.  
  
----------  
  
It was late by the time that Fastred was able to get to sleep. All the candles in the house were blown out, and a chilly blue fog had settled around the smial like a sleeping beast. Fastred padded through the hallway quietly, in no need of any light. He knew his home like he knew the back of his hand.  
  
Ghostly shadows of trees and window panes fell onto the wooden floor of the smial, black silhouettes framed by cold moonlight. The wind hissed silently outside, tugging at the leaves of the trees and battering gently upon walls and doors. Fastred passed through the main hallway and opened the door to his own room. The hinges creaked quietly, but in the still silence of the night, the sound was a sudden groan.  
  
Fastred closed the door behind him, wincing at the creak. Nobody had awoken; Elanor lay peacefully on the bed, curled up, barely covered by the blanket. Fastred walked through the bedroom as quietly as possible. He slipped under the covers next to his wife, and tugged the blanket up to her chin. Then he lay comfortably on his back, watching the dusty moonlight on the far wall, in silence, until he drifted off to sleep.  
  
----------  
  
The next day dawned with the flash of lightning and a sudden outburst of cool rain. Thunder rumbled ominously over the smial of the Warden, the dark clouds overhead seemingly reaching down to touch the earth. The dry grass waved happily in the wind, glad to get any amount of water in the dry spell.  
  
A curtain of rain was falling all around the smial, running off of the thatched rooftop and foaming on the cobblestone steps. The ponies stuck their heads out of the stables into the rain, letting the refreshing water run all down their faces and manes. Few birds came out into the storm, but instead huddled over their hatchlings, under the protection of simple leaves.  
  
Elfstan frowned unhappily, sitting against his father's chair with his arms crossed. Elanor drifted past him, sweeping the floor. She had to gently brush the wheat-stalk broom around his legs.  
  
"Quit sulking like that, Elfstan. Get up so I can clean, alright?"  
  
Reluctantly, the three-year-old stood and climbed into his father's chair, nestling against the dusty stuffed arms.  
  
"Now, get off of your dad's chair. I thought I told you not to go on it."  
  
Elfstan huffed. "Can't I do anything t'day?!"  
  
Elanor paused, looking at him. "Sure. You can clean. You can help me do dishes, or you can dust. I'm sure you'd easily fit into all those hard to reach corners..." Elanor smiled at her son, who looked up at her tearfully, as if cleaning, to him, were the worst thing in the world-- even though he had never cleaned in his life. "Oh, Elf, I was just kidding around. Go and see if Bronwe's awake. I'm sure you can do something with him."  
  
Fastred came out from the other end of the house, his curly hair tousled. Elfstan sulked deeper into the chair. "He scares me," he said bluntly.  
  
"Who? Bronwe? Don't be silly, Elfstan. He's just a little lost, is all. We'll help him find his way."  
  
Oblivious to this conversation, Fastred pulled a coat on. "Elf, you want to come with me to feed the ponies?"  
  
The young lad crawled down from the chair and moved quickly to catch up with his father, excited to go outside. Fastred opened the front door. The incoming wind ruffled his coat like a flag.  
  
"Don't get all muddy out there," Elanor called after the pair.  
  
Elfstan screamed and ran out into the rain, waving his arms like one of his 'h'eagles.' He stomped his feet hard, trying to bring up as much water as possible. Fastred hurried over and grabbed him. "Now," he said, "we're out to feed the ponies, not play in the water, alright?"  
  
The young hobbit ignored the warning, tugging out of his father's grasp. He started running back out into the rain, when a sudden flare of lightning lit the entire front yard, and the path to the stables, and the miles of hills beyond. Elfstan, gasping, scrambled back to his father. He had always been afraid of lightning. Fastred smiled gently and picked Elfstan up, carrying him breathless to the stables.  
  
Oddly silent compared to the wind and rain of outside, the stable seemed a sanctuary. The ponies hit their hooves on the wooden floor, eager to eat. Elfstan slowly walked around, shaken up by the experience of outside. Thunder exploded overhead, and this frightened him even more. He stuck close to his father. "I'm scared," he said.  
  
Fastred began carrying armfuls of hay over to the pony stalls. "Thunder won't harm you, Elfstan. But it is real. A sudden flash of lightning, an unexpected flare of wildfire, warns us that nature is very real. It's all around us." Elfstan listened, obviously looking for a distraction from the storm. "Alot of others say that nature can be controlled. Like the use of windmills. But that isn't a form of controlling nature. It's just a form of brushing up against it and obtaining energy. How easily a bolt of lightning could level that windmill! We are all in the hands of nature. You understand, Elfstan?"  
  
"Kind of."  
  
"Good enough," Fastred laughed, giving Eowyn a pat. "Well, let's go back to the house. You need to wash yourself up."  
  
Elfstan stuck close to his father as they walked down to the house, but he refused to be carried. He didn't stray from his father's side, but he did flinch when another twinkle of lightning alit the hills far away, flaring bright against the silhouette of the smial.  
  
When father and son came back into the house, they saw Bronwe awake, talking to Elanor. He looked alot better, not as pale as before, with a soft smile in his eyes instead of blank nothingness. Elfstan walked around his father and ran to the washroom, trying to make sure that his mother didn't see him.  
  
Fastred nodded a hello to Bronwe. "Feeling better?"  
  
Bronwe nodded, still inclined to be silent. Elanor looked around for Elfstan, and then noticed the muddy footprints running from the doorway to the kitchen. Huffily, she picked up her skirt ends and followed the trail of dirt. Fastred took his coat off and hung it on the rack. He smiled at the muffled, frustrated voice of his wife as she talked to Elfstan. "Did you rest well, Bronwe?"  
  
"Not really... storm woke me up."  
  
"Oh. I'm sorry. But we can really thank the sky for this rain. Most of the crops around here were dying out, because of the draught."  
  
Bronwe nodded as if he were just remembering something. "Crops. Those are farmer's plants, right?"  
  
"That's right..." Fastred turned his head slightly as Elanor came out of the kitchen with Elfstan in her arms, wrapped in a towel, dripping water on the floor.  
  
"Whose idea was it to let Elfstan run in the rain?"  
  
"I won't do it again, momma. I swear."  
  
"Go ahead and go to your room, Elfstan. Put some clean clothes on," said Fastred. He watched the three-year-old walk off, then he looked back at Elanor. "I don't think he'll be running around in the middle of a storm anymore. The lightning and thunder scared him so much when he was out there. I think it was because there wasn't a roof over his head."  
  
"Or maybe because his mother wasn't there," Bronwe said from the other side of the room. He had been silent this entire time, and neither of them had expected such a comment from him. After all, he had only known them for about two days, and Elfstan preferred to not be near him. Elanor looked at Bronwe. "Oh, that's right. I'm making breakfast. It should be done soon."  
  
Elanor rushed off to the kitchen. The thunder rumbled overhead, and the storm continued through the entire day, lighting the Shire with majestic but spasmodic flares of heavenly light. It was as if the storm knew that something bad was coming, and it was simply bringing tidings of such things...  
  
~TBC~ 


End file.
